Let Slip the Hounds
by sostrangechild
Summary: When Altaïr faces Talal he expects guards, not giant hell dogs. After defeating the slaver, Altaïr stumbles back to the bureau: injured, exhausted, dehydrated. As he heals, however, something inside him changes, and with that, Malik finds himself dealing with far more than he ever wanted. Werewolf AU.
1. Chapter 1

Fangs like daggers sank into his shoulder, snapping off one of the straps attached to his knife and sheath, before Altaïr rammed his palm into the creature's jaw. It squealed or squeaked; the sound of hurt dog ringing in the relatively empty slave hall of Talal. Clearly there had been a shipment recently for Altaïr had heard of Talal's propensity for a plentiful supply.

The dog (wolf? It was a bigger dog than Altaïr had ever seen) rolled back, shook it's head and lunged for Altaïr again with a spray of drool flying from it's muzzle. Throwing himself to one side, Altaïr skidded out of the way, creating a smokescreen of dust from the action. It didn't stop the dog for long and Altaïr tried to stab the neck, feeling the slide of sinew briefly against his hidden blade but only scraping the shoulder instead, sliding off something already there. Underneath the thick ruff of fur was a collar of some kind, a band of silvery metal that was almost a finger thick and a hand wide.

The dog snarled and snapped at Altaïr, barely missing the soft underside of his throat. Talal was laughing at the scene before him, and Altaïr could hear him moving around the high balcony above him. His right shoulder ached from the bite and the abuse he was giving it. The vicious and strange guard dog wasn't going down anytime soon - it would be reckless to try to kill it outright. Deciding that fleeing was the best option, Altaïr struck the dog with a throwing dagger. As it tried to swat the knife out, giant paw patting comically at it's own face, Altaïr ran for a ladder.

An arrow whizzed past Altaïr's face. Clearly the dog was supposed to have finished him. He grinned even against the pain of his shoulder, which was now flaring in bursts of radiating pain as he climbed the ladder. When he made it to the top, Altaïr flicked momentarily into his second sight and locked onto Talal just as the man kicked open a hatch and attempted to flee. Another dog burst from a cage, hidden at first by the shadows. Flinging himself forward into a run, Altaïr flew over the second giant dog, rolled, and smoothly came out of the roll to continue after Talal.

The man was fast and very good at escaping but Altaïr knew the rooftops better than the street urchins, deftly squeezing out the hole Talal had used and turning to run parallel to the man. With feet lighter than a spring breeze he jumped from the roof of the warehouse to a small platform. Talal had made good headway.

There was the sound of an explosion of wood from behind the assassin. Altaïr briefly looked behind him and picked up his pace when the second dog attempted to pursue him, easily making the jumps. Pulling another throwing dagger from his belt, Altaïr sprinted across a plank, kicked it into the street below and waited for the dog to follow. As predicted it leapt and the knife took it by the eye, and it howled, missing a smooth landing and joined with the plank in a shared fate.

Although he would have liked to have checked that the dog wasn't going to make a nuisance of itself and was actually dead, Talal was fast slipping away. In the end, Altaïr threw the last of his daggers into the man's thighs and ankles, forcing him to stumble and fall. The end was quick after that, but Altaïr had a feeling that something was wrong, that he had missed the chance to ask Talal something vital, even as he dipped the feather into the man's cooling blood.

The man had died smiling, a vicious smile of triumph that focused on Altaïr's shoulder than his face.


	2. Chapter 2

At least the bleeding had stopped, mused Altaïr as he hauled himself over a wall tenderly. He'd been trained to ignore pain, ignore injuries, and push on no matter what, but the heat of the battle was fading, and almost having his arm bitten off by a rampaging giant dog that was definitely not in any way naturally bred had taken it's toll. The aching had returned with fierce vengeance, every movement threatening to leave him unconscious.

He spent only a few moments for himself, hiding in a rooftop garden. His red sash was incredibly useful, if a bit damp from sweat, and Altaïr used it as a makeshift bandage around his shoulder. Blood seeped through the fabric almost immediately but it was all Altaïr had. Checking for guards, he then slipped out and made the long, treacherous walk back to the bureau.

An injured assassin was tempting bait. If the guards saw him, Altaïr knew he had no hope of fighting them. So he carefully crept around the edges, pressing himself to the shadows, and took very few chances with guards. The sun was beating down on him and his robes felt stuffy and restricting. It drained him of almost all of his remaining energy, his tongue dry and thick and useless in his mouth, his right arm throbbing in time with the headache that had started behind his eyes.

He wondered if he was going to lose the arm. He wondered if Malik would enjoy that. Altaïr shook his head - the man hadn't been as scathing as he usually was, and none of the Assassins enjoyed the physical impairing of a brother.

It took Altaïr more than a moment to realise he was at the bureau grate and had been so for at least five minutes. Tenderly, he slid down, and couldn't hold back a grunt as his shoulder jarred from the landing. With the last of his strength and fading vision, he tumbled into the pillows and hoped Malik wouldn't be spiteful enough not to see why he hadn't delivered a feather. He touched his fingers to his wound again, drawing back viscous red, and blinked in confusion at the same fluid being smeared over the wall he had descended. Eyes closing once, Altaïr jerked himself awake. He needed the attention of a doctor. This was too much blood and his arm was turning numb. Malik didn't seem to be coming.

"Malik!" he groaned out.

He jumped when Malik appeared not in the doorway, but on the other side. Hands dragged him onto a rug. It was more than Malik, Altaïr realised as he tried to stay awake, it was the rest of the bureau too. Frightened, calm, and worried faces filled his vision with equal measure, blurring and lilting as Altaïr gripped consciousness with a stubbornness he was well known for. The faces didn't feel real.

Vaguely he felt himself being lifted onto a table. Altaïr touched a face, leaving a red smudge on their cheek, and they seemed so very young. Perhaps it belonged to a novice, newly ranked to a mission outside of Masyaf. They didn't have much chance to see wounds from actual enemies up in the fortress; this was indeed the first time the novice had seen an injured assassin, and it stuck with him until his own death that even the great Altaïr could be brought to the brink of this world and the next.

A crack of agony shot through Altaïr. Hands were on his shoulder and arm, pushing it back into place. Someone murmured, "Dislocation" but that was all Altaïr heard as his ears filled with a roaring noise, his body dipped in coldness that pricked from his toes to his head in a wave, vanishing before everything became quiet.

Then the hands started to clean the wound and his blood felt too thick for his veins, a fever taking his body in shock and finally forcing Altaïr unconscious.

* * *

He could feel his fingers. They popped as he flexed them, the strange weakness of sleep making them feel heavy, but he could feel them. Lacking his usual clarity, Altaïr looked around the room he was in, and started to figure out where he was.

Dog bite.

Chase.

Talal's death.

Bandaging.

Bureau.

Malik.

Scared young boy.

Shoulder dislocated.

The bureau. Where? The sickbay? Altaïr had never been into the Jerusalem sickbay proper - he'd never had the need to be detained behind the curtain that hid most of the room. When he turned his head, he did indeed find the curtain. It was faded on this side. Or maybe it was faded both sides and Altaïr hadn't cared to notice. Maybe he hadn't wanted to notice.

There was a difference, Altaïr mused, and was distracted by the overwhelming brightness of the room. Lifting his good arm, he let it drop over his eyes. Indignantly he felt that his body was being ridiculous and had no right to feel this tired and jerky, like a hay-stuffed mannequin. He'd had worse.

He thought he'd had worse. The problem was that he couldn't remember Iwhen/I he'd felt worse and he vaguely pinpointed an incident where he'd split his head open on the edge of a fountain or something else that was solid and sharply edged. Yet he couldn't remember if that was actually him or not and he growled at himself to Ifocus./I That injury wasn't important. The one he had now was.

"Ah, this is good," muttered a voice.

The young novice had appeared in the doorway, the curtain hesitantly parted as he peered in.

"I'll tell the Daí you have awoken," he told Altaïr.

"I can tell him myself," replied Altaïr.

He pushed himself up, keeping the weight from his shoulder, and shakily stretched his legs. The novice squealed in dismay and rushed over to stop Altaïr from rising. He froze, hands hovering above the master assassin all at once feeling unsure of what to do.

"The doctor told him and he told me to tell you that you are not to move about," said the novice.

Altaïr finally looked at the bright eyed young man, resting for a moment before attempting to rise to his feet. The open adoration and earnest pose of the novice's mouth was strikingly like Kadar. Except Kadar had possessed soft grey eyes that were much wider, and a slight frame that he'd not quite grown into yet. This novice was quite gangly, but moved in a fluid manner that suggested a sinewy strength through his core rather than his arms. A good climber - holding that abdomen strength was something Altaïr rarely saw in a man; it was mostly focused on the arms and legs.

Yet what disturbed Altaïr the most was the thick scent of musk. It was only normal for the body odour to become slightly unmanageable but this was different - surely every Templar in Jerusalem would be able to scent that stench from halfway across the poor district. He switched to breathing through his mouth instead.

That was a mistake: it had a taste.

"You remind me of another novice," Altaïr remarked.

"Yes?"

Throwing off his blanket and using the novice as a strut to lean on, Altaïr managed to steady his legs.

"He was a good person. Good people don't live long."

The novice was left a little stunned, and slightly uneasy.

Shuffling down the short corridor to the main bureau, Altaïr stretched and clicked, his bones popping comfortably, tense and stressed muscles easing up. A dull pang spread through his body when he bumped it against the wall. It felt numbed. The doctor had probably employed a type of herbal brew while he had been asleep. Something that Altaïr was grateful for as he didn't believe that he would be quite so ready to walk about without it.

The scent of Malik's incense reached Altaïr before Altaïr could reach it. His nose wrinkled - it was heavier than what Malik usually burnt. Perhaps finding the Daí wasn't such a good idea after all. It wouldn't be the first time Altaïr had confused stubbornness for determination and willpower.

Deciding to bear it was, again, Altaïr later decided a result of stubbornness when he woke up in the sickbay. Again.

This time Malik was waiting for him. There was a dark, angry animal lurking underneath Malik's skin, waiting to pounce at the slightest trigger. It was not a pleasant look and there had only been a few times where Malik had been truly angry enough to allow his emotions to grip his body.

When he spoke it was with a hiss and barely withheld venom, "You were told to stay down."

Altaïr said nothing. There was no need to. He was in the wrong and he knew it. It would only make it sting if he were to argue back.

"I'm surprised that you didn't tear everything open again," Malik continued. "You utter fool."

Altaïr's curiosity got the better of him - he'd bandaged himself but there had been too much blood to tell. Sometimes the injury wasn't nearly as bad, not if it came out clean. When he'd busted his lip and mouth it had been quite bloody, but not unbelievably detaining.

"How bad is it?" asked Altaïr.

It felt strange. He felt itchy and unwieldy and his blood had started to pump. Malik smelt like his incense but mixed with the tang of a natural, more primal, yet more subdued. A sudden notion to shove Malik down and drink in that scent startled Altaïr. But t was so enticing, and Malik was _right there -_

"Let's have a look, shall we? See if I need to call upon the doctor again," Malik said, quite unaware of interrupting Altaïr's train of thought.

The dried blood stuck to his skin in flakes as Malik peeled off the bandages to Altaïr's shoulder. A damp cloth eased up the last of the gunk. An o-shape formed on Malik's lips, and Altaïr looked down in confusion.

The bite was nearly gone.


	3. Chapter 3

There was extensive scarring, scarring that snapped open when Altaïr lifted his arm and rolled it gently. As much as breaking the scar tissue hurt, he needed the full capacity of his arm.

"I don't understand," said Malik. "it was a deep wound."

"Perhaps it wasn't as deep as you supposed."

He used the bandages to dab at the spots where he'd started to bleed again.

"The doctor said there was bone visible."

"He was mistaken then," snapped Altaïr. "For how else would you explain this wound? It is much smaller."

He paused for a moment to centre himself. That spark of aggression was normally reserved for his enemies. It felt heightened by Malik's presence, the smell of ink and wax and incense, that spice deeply embedded into his skin and a musk that made him lean forward slightly.

"How long was I asleep?" inquired Altaïr.

"Three days. You had a fever."

That wasn't reasonable enough time to have healed quite so extensively. In the past, Altaïr had surprised both the Masyaf doctors and himself by shaking off several serious illnesses and injuries, but even those had been a process.

"Call it whatever: a mistake or miracle," said Altaïr. "I do not care. The most important thing is that I retain flexibility in my arm."

He wiped off the blood again and felt along the tissue for any problems. Nothing. Normal scar tissue.

Then Malik's fingers brushed against the thickly corded shoulder and Altaïr snarled, moving before he recognised the emotion. Malik was faster, pulling back enough that Altaïr only snagged his black coat momentarily. A deep, rumbling growl, deeper than Malik had ever heard come from any human, vibrated in Altaïr's chest.

"Knock that off," commanded Malik.

The growling stopped. Something shifted inside of the master assassin and he entered the realm of human once more. A strange sort of obedience seemed to enter Altaïr - obedience but not submission. It threw Malik off balance, unsure of what had just occurred. A tenuous link seemed to have sprung between them as Altaïr pulled back, then rubbed his temples.

"The light is too much and I am hungry. My apologies," he murmured in a rather meek manner.

"I shall send a bowl of food in," decided Malik.

They gave each other a strange look, and Malik wondered if Altaïr also felt that link that seemed to be stretching between them. It thinned and disappeared when they lost sight of one another. It was a ridiculous notion, Malik told himself and banished the thoughts to the depths of his mind. There was work to be done. 

* * *

Altaïr was jogging in circles around the courtyard when one of the informants from the merchant district dropped through the grate. He forced back the thought of crowding them into a corner to smell them - they smelt good like Malik - and settled for watching the informant as they nervously crossed in front of him. As soon as they entered the bureau reception, Altaïr started to jog again, trying not to linger where the informant had pressed their hands against the wall to lower themselves in.

He also tried not to think of why he could smell so sharply and why it had suddenly become so important to smell everyone. The novice that had stunk had been wearing a perfume for a job, masking his own scent to convince a woman that her husband was seeing another woman. As soon as he'd washed it off Altaïr had pounced, and earnt a sharp reprimand from Malik who had (much to Altaïr's dismay) seen the entire thing. So he kept himself on a tight scheme of control. Resisting the scents became easier, although Malik still posed a problem.

The link that he'd felt in the infirmary had only grown stronger. It was almost as if they were establishing boundaries; Altaïr would push, Malik would push back, sometimes neither would win, sometimes one or the other would, and sometimes a compromise was made. It was never verbal. Altaïr wasn't even sure if Malik felt it as well. Yet the Daí had become far more amicable towards him, probably because Altaïr had been forced to remain in the bureau while waiting for news from Masyaf. Technically he was supposed to have returned by now but Malik had firmly refused to let Altaïr go.

Iyad, the novice Altaïr had pinned, had also made a protest albeit much quieter and unnoticed by Malik. His heartbeat had quickened at Altaïr's attempt to leave, then slowed as Malik dragged Altaïr back.

"If you cannot fight off a one-armed man then you are not ready to leave!"

"You discredit yourself! You were the better swordsman and I doubt you have forgotten your skills in your time as Daí."

In truth Altaïr hadn't really wanted to leave. Being physically pushed around by Malik pleased him and prompted a small play fight which turned into a proper sparring session to burn off the restlessness of them both. Much to the delight of the others currently in residence at the bureau, it got progressively more and more competitive, Malik serving up clever and quick sword disarms while Altaïr ducked and wove with an almost unnatural ability of knowing exactly where Malik was at all times.

Altaïr stopped jogging. Sweat dripped down his chest as the sun rose to it's peak and he decided to find out why the informant had come to them rather than waiting in their usual place.

"-not our concern," finished Malik.

He reached under the counter and pulled out a few coins, pressing them into the hand of the informant.

"I walked all the way here! You wanted news on Talal," protested the informant.

"And you can walk all the way back," said Malik calmly. "Talal has been dead for nearly a month, his slaves have been freed, and he is no longer our concern."

Opening his mouth to argue further, the informant was cut off by a growl that Altaïr let slip completely by accident. This was another thing he'd been trying to control, along with an unsatisfiable hunger for meat and heavy food and simply food in general. This time, however, the growling proved useful as the informant jumped and didn't even glance back as he fled the bureau.

"What was that about?" Altaïr asked after making sure the informant was truly gone.

"They found another warehouse. Lots of dogs - apparently very good guards. The merchants have taken to them like they did with the other flow of large, dangerous pets," said Malik.

He opened an accounts book and marked the payment of the informant down.

"Like the tigers?"

Nodding, Malik hummed absently as he double checked his sums.

"I'll have to inform the rest of the nest. We cannot lose anyone to misinformation. And Masyaf will need to know as well, I suppose."

Altaïr bit his lip. Those dogs were probably worse than the tigers. If their luck held out, the merchants would tire of them quickly and use their pelts as rugs or some fearsome sort of taxidermy. He still remembered creeping through the house of a merchant and finding a tiger primly perched on the exact box of blackmail material he needed to access. It had blinked sleepily at him.

He had snuck into the kitchen and hurled a large side of meat into the corridor, tempting the wildcat out with the promise of more. The documents were easy after that but he ended up hiding in the rafters when a second and third tiger came in to investigate the scent of food.

Somehow Altaïr didn't think that these particular dogs would fall for the same trick.

"We should investigate them," said Altaïr.

"Yes, but I don't have the resources. If they could take down you-"

"I wasn't expecting them," said Altaïr. "I am now."

"It's too dangerous. We'll confront them when we have to and make doubly sure that our targets are dog-free," said Malik.

Altaïr hushed at the tone. Malik had been a good field assassin, almost as good as himself, but Altaïr found himself respecting the aura of leadership and command Malik held over his bureau. It ran smoother than any other Altaïr had visited and was cleaner too. The supplies were good and the informants had yet to fail them. Nobody had been caught or killed on Malik's watch, and although there was a roster of assassins coming in and out of the infirmary there had been no serious illness or injury until Altaïr's dog bite. Jerusalem was truly Malik's city. And Malik was still an assassin to be feared and respected in equal measure.

So Altaïr didn't push the subject further. 

* * *

He'd been given a job. A simple job - no target, merely an errand - but one that was very important to Malik and therefore very important to Altaïr too. They needed supplies, such as ink, food, wax, and fabrics, for winter was creeping upon them and it had been an unusually cool summer. There were coats to be repaired and leaks to be fixed, arrows to be straightened, sealed, and stored, and the arrival of the winter convoy would put the whole bureau into disarray until it was sorted who would be leaving for Masyaf, who would stay, and who was moving onto another city.

Hence Altaïr dressing himself in his under robes only, leaving the more elaborately embroidered over coat and sashes in his trunk of belongings. Iyad was to accompany him, and together they would go to the market near the edge of the western wall to collect the items. As he was not yet a journeyman and remained in the grey misshapen robes of the novice, Iyad opted for a slightly more colourful option and wore a simple brown tunic and pants with a blue sash.

They still donned hoods in the end, Iyad's matching his tunic and Altaïr wearing a plain version of his own. Instead of climbing through the grate, Malik let them through several heavily reinforced doors for them to pop discreetly into a crowd from a tiny alleyway. The noise washed over Altaïr, overwhelming him and leaving him to lean against the rough stone of the alley. After a few moments of horror and sensory blindness - a sensation Altaïr was unaccustomed and therefore rather disturbed and disorientated by - he took Iyad's hand and allowed himself to be guided through the busy streets of Jerusalem.

"What type of ink?"

"Woad," replied Iyad. "And weld, if it's available."

Altaïr nodded. It was easier to cope with the noise and light if he could focus on one thing. He hadn't expected it to be a problem - the over stimulus had faded in the bureau and Malik had decided it was a side effect of the fever.

Apparently not.

Keeping the conversation going was difficult, and they had to stop for Altaïr every now and then. It took them a fair deal longer than what it should have. In the end, they made it with little disturbance. For the last few hundred metres, the sun had been so blinding that Altaïr had walked blind, his second sight not making it any easier by flickering in and out. Pulling his hood low, he hoped the guards wouldn't notice the flashing golden colour that he was said to acquire when "seeing".

Iyad had been incredibly patient - more patient than Altaïr had ever been at his age - and did most of the shopping. The marketplace was even more crowded than the streets. For some of the more popular stores, Iyad left Altaïr with the baskets and would duck in, elbowing his way through. The skill he possessed at navigation was similar to a street urchin's - Iyad had never spoken of his past, so it was entirely possible that he had been collected by the Assassins.

The smells of the market were surprisingly pleasant. Meat sizzled over fires, spices wafted from baskets, and even the awkward smell of newly dyed fabrics didn't phase him. It was a mixed bag for the people as some wore strong perfumes and others hadn't bathed in some time. Human waste was an underlying aroma, especially now that the sun was warming the piles where the citizens of Jerusalem collected their rubbish.

A rich, earthy, woollen smell caught Altaïr's attention. He subtly looked around, trying to find the source. Whatever it was, he wanted to know what or who it belonged to. All thoughts of not cornering people that smelt appealing went straight out of Altaïr's head like a startled pigeon. The scent appealed to him in a way that only one other person's did, and that was a completely different scent altogether. It was compelling and strong and he needed it.

Without any reason, Altaïr watched a nearby shop of pottery. A woman turned, her face pale in the dark fabrics of her dress and scarf, her steely blue eyes scanning the marketplace. She glared at Altaïr, her nose flaring in anger. Like many people, she knew when someone was watching her. He averted his gaze - they didn't need to be run out of the markets. Despite evidence otherwise, Altaïr knew how to conduct himself when in plain dress. Getting into a fight was productive for nobody.

"Altaïr?" asked Iyad.

He snapped back to attention and realised that Iyad was staring at him. He was sure that the source was near the woman, but it was gone now.

"Are you feeling well?"

"Yes," snapped Altaïr, trying to catch the lost fragrance.

"We should leave," Iyad said, collecting some of the baskets. "I don't like the feel of the air today."

It was no use. Whatever had been there was gone. While it wasn't Iyad's fault, Altaïr still felt a little resentment towards the novice.

"There will be a storm later," continued Iyad when his companion remained silent.

He looked to the sky, away from the sun, and made out the pale orb of the moon near the horizon. Full moon in a few days. Iyad didn't make much of the thought that humans were affected by the moon but perhaps there was some truth in it.

Iyad kept up the chatter the whole way home, but Altaïr wasn't listening this time. Too distracted. Too focused on the slight chance he'd cross paths with the other scent again.


	4. Chapter 4

The door thumped and rattled but it's occupant wasn't getting out anytime soon, thick planks of wood and steel reinforcing it. Malik felt the frustrated banging and scratching, the tips of paws poking under the gap, and angry growling. Stepping away, he felt for a hidden button in the stone and pressed it, a portcullis descending from a slot above the door. The bureau may not be the richest but it certainly had some tricks.

When he was satisfied that the grill of metal was secure, Malik placed two novices and three journeymen on watch at the door, then prepared another five of mixed rank to relieve them in four hours. They all seemed frightened and hiding it poorly but Malik didn't blame them. What they had witnessed that night would have destroyed the minds of the weaker.

Men who could turn into wolves. A legend. A story that had started with jackals and been added to with the advance of the Crusaders.

And Altaïr was one of them.

Malik laid down to rest, exhausted, but unable to in the face of a much bigger problem. Al Mualim's prize assassin had been forcibly changed into a beast. Somehow, knowing Altaïr's current level of control (fractured and erratic, but everything made _so much more sense now_ - the sniffing, his second sight being triggered without desire to do so, the hypersensitivity to light and smell and sound, the strange possessiveness), Malik doubted that Masyaf would have any plans that involved a pleasant resolution for all. Yet shock and fatigue finally claimed Malik, and he didn't even stir when the watches changed, the first lot dragging up blankets and pillows from the residences below to sleep in the courtyard.

Altaïr, down below, continued to claw and scratch and howl, bloodying his paws and reducing his cell to shambles. 

* * *

The moon hung upon him like an oppressive cloud, the strange possession of it winding around his body, strumming his veins like the string of a tightly wound instrument. It had been winding him tighter and tighter as the orb grew fuller. But today, as it reached the peak of the cycle, Altaïr felt particularly restless, his strings vibrating as they frayed and came closer to snapping.

He'd risen early, snuck away using the alley passage, locking it behind him, and ran. Ran until he couldn't anymore and when he couldn't run, he climbed until that too had expelled his energy. The city was putrid, worse than before, but he knew where to go, where he could feel alone and free.

The eagle had objected to commandeering the nest at first, then quietened as Altaïr fed it pieces of meat, mindful of his fingers as he did. Then it chirped and flew away, diving, perhaps for a mouse, and Altaïr didn't see it again for the remainder of his stay.

There had been some disturbing news five days beforehand; a vicious dog attack, leaving a woman in three pieces in a dark street. Altaïr knew it was the dog he'd faced on the rooftops - it hadn't died from the fall. Reluctantly Malik had given Altaïr permission to investigate, seeing as he couldn't return to Masyaf. A letter had finally come, restoring another rank of Altaïr's honour, and ordering him to stay in Jerusalem - another Templar would be there in a week that Al Mualim wanted dealt with. The result was that the errands were boring Altaïr and by being bored he would irritate Malik. Permission was granted to go after the dog.

But five days and he'd hit a dead end, managing only to procure a sealed chest from the original warehouse. He'd worked at unlocking it, but quickly realised it was trapped and required prolonged study. So he'd spent yesterday working on that and felt too frustrated to work on it as soon as he had awoken on the morning of tight strings and full orb.

Up on his perch the wind was strong and fresh. They were far from the ocean, but there was a certain saltiness to the air, a dryness that stuck to his tongue. If anyone were to look up at that moment, they would see only a ghost, and would quickly forget about it in the manner that civilians had to in order to survive in this harsh city. Some of them might see the ghost as an agent of their preferred religion. Some would remind themselves of another man in white and pay the tower no mind, not raising the suspicions of the guards posted at the base; debts were repaid in many ways.

Finally, knowing that he had to return, had to face that locked chest, Altaïr performed a perfect Leap of Faith, the wind whipping at his robes as he fell safely into a hay cart below. The mustiness made him sneeze.

Malik was eating breakfast when Altaïr returned, scanning a book and making notes. Accounts, most likely. They would swap that record for the winter and spring record when the winter convoy arrived; the scholars at Masyaf would check the books and send them back with the summer convoy to ensure bureaus were not overspending. Malik was concerned that Al Mualim might not see the bribes cost as necessary, as it had been rather high this half-year. But if Al Mualim wanted his Assassins to return from missions safely, then he'd pay the damn price for the information. The Templar Knight presence was at a disturbing high and this made people unwilling to risk their necks for the same rates as before.

While Malik was mulling over how best to phrase a letter to say so, Altaïr returned the alley key to his desk, and brought the chest up. It had an elaborate lock, and sloshed about with water. Altaïr had only seen something of this sophistication once and therefore wasn't quite sure how to proceed without damaging the contents or the chest. If he could keep the chest intact, then Al Mualim might find it a useful project for safekeeping documents.

It was disgustingly clever; when opened or disturbed in the wrong way the contents would fall into the water chamber - probably mixed with a parchment eating solution of some sort - and destroy the paper documents and render them useless to the thief. It was something Altaïr would normally take joy in unravelling, but now he felt hot and bothered and frustrated, pushing his hood off so that he might not sweat as much. If he were to just break the lock and open the lid, the documents would be a mush before he could get to them. If he sawed the water chamber off that would damage the box and he rather wanted it intact. His second sight was providing little help, having been erratic all week and only growing worse by the day (the implications of which Altaïr did not wish to discuss nor want to think about - only a few of the Brotherhood knew of his gifts and he didn't need their concern clouding his attempts to restore himself to full functionality), the entire box sparkling with energy rather than any small detail. He growled.

It was too much. He was not in the right frame of mind. The restlessness had returned and he scrambled from the courtyard to run through the city for the rest of the day.

Malik had noted how squirmy and energetic Altaïr had been but there was really nothing he could do. Focusing attention on one resident of the bureau would be at the suffering of the others. Despite the strange link of animosity that seemed to be growing stronger each day that Altaïr remained in Jerusalem, Malik felt mildly annoyed that Altaïr had managed to worm his way in and lodge himself there. No matter where he went, Altaïr seemed to follow. Yet the man was changing.

Hopefully for the better.

Reports of a man in white shoving guards from innocent civilians and fighting off whole groups at once were becoming common on Malik's information network. The others hadn't claimed the honours and there was only one that could consistently come out unharmed from such fights, yet Altaïr hadn't made so much as a peep. Old Altaïr would have bragged. This new Altaïr didn't seem quite as inclined.

That scared Malik a little - could one person change so much and so rapidly? But he realised that this wasn't so much as a new Altaïr than an Altaïr that had been left behind in childhood. He did remember a small, studious, and lonely boy - one that did not brag, did not possess arrogance. There had been doubts about that boy as to whether he was a suitable novice for further training. The arrogance had been bravado and a mask.

Then the mask became real.

When Altaïr dropped into the bureau with minutes before the grate was closed as the sun set on Jerusalem, Malik looked at him in a different manner. Their link thrummed as Altaïr touched his shoulder by accident while entering the bureau reception. A pulse seemed to wash through it, Altaïr physically reacting with a flinch.

A string snapped, a hum of _something else_ singing in his blood.

_Protect._

Altaïr stared in surprise at the laces on the side of his over robe. They had torn the eyelets out, leaving it hanging loosely. The robes had felt a little tight that morning, but not this tight. In fact he'd looked himself over and made sure he wasn't losing shape but he felt and looked better than before, his muscles in peak condition. The sudden tear had come from nowhere.

He hurriedly undid his belts and stripped to his under robe, hoping that Malik hadn't noticed. When everyone was asleep, Altaïr decided, he would sneak back out and fix the eyelets, stitching them back in place. The laces would have to be done looser in the future. Perhaps he had put on weight while ill. Yet he could have sworn it was fine yesterday. He pushed the thoughts aside as he tucked his belt and over robe under his arm, using his sash to tie his under robe in.

However Malik was still standing in the courtyard, quite preoccupied by a sudden tangle in his throat, and a panic that had gripped his heart and set it pounding. As he calmed, he told himself that he was being ridiculous and there was nothing between them. No bloody link, no twitching.

"The grate is still open," said Altaïr.

The twilight was creeping in, the last of the orange light in the clouds soaked out by indigo.

"I can do it if it pleases you," Altaïr murmured.

Malik went to close the grate just as Altaïr made a step towards the blue evening. The grate made an awful clanging racket, not at all like the quiet that Malik preferred. Something was wrong with the Daí. He reached for the other man, leaving the shadows of the bureau.

A stinging cold sensation poured through Altaïr's veins as faint moonlight spilt across his skin. He flinched again, chest heaving, body tensing in an unnatural way. When Malik turned, he saw the veins in Altaïr's arms rising to the surface before it disappeared when Altaïr backed into the bureau once more.

"I'll check on dinner," he said gruffly.

He felt so cold. If he were to take a breath, he was afraid he'd spit out ice. The kitchens had fire, had warmth. Get warm. Stay away from the moon.

He choked on his next breath, mouth feeling overly full of teeth, and stumbled, spitting out pearly pieces of stones. Snarling, he jerked away from the teeth on the ground, accidentally moving towards the courtyard once more. Malik grabbed him by the shoulder, forcing him to sit down, shaking him. There were words in there somewhere but Altaïr didn't recognise them.

He lunged forward, trying to use his teeth to bite. Nobody caged him. Nobody held him. He was not a pet.

The human pushed back, surprising Altaïr, even sticking a finger in his mouth. More words. Garbled. Words.

Someone else was coming up, smelling of meat and plants and spice. Their foot settled upon a fallen tooth. They dropped the tray they held, pottery ringing around in Altaïr's head as it shattered, a wet sound of broth slapping against stone.

With one powerful twist, Altaïr rolled away from the humans, balancing on four limbs. He screamed into the room; the younger human jumped. The human in black stepped in front of the pup, snatching up a sword hanging from the wall, flinging the scabbard off. This one was skilled. Injured but vicious.

He didn't like the look of the pointy silver stick.

A wave of fire washed over him, bones cracking in the heat after the cold had turned them to glass, rearranging themselves. Robes split at the seams, and Altaïr remembered that this wasn't him. He screeched in shock, backing up, staring at his hands as they sprouted claws, his fingernails dripping blood.

The strings of his body vibrated, squealing, and with each one that snapped he lost a bit of himself in the agony. Collapsing, he writhed on the floor, torn between wanting to scratch his skin and run into the moonlight.

Malik grabbed the back of his robes, and Altaïr kicked at him as he was dragged downstairs, shaking off his human form. The last scraps of his clothing tore off, but Malik still had him somehow.

Then Malik turned into a human, or a piece of prey, and he tried to twist his head around to bite the human's hand off. He smelt like kin but he wasn't treating him like kin, and rage filled the wolf. More prey flocked to them, throwing ropes and prodding at him, as they made loud noises with their mouths, the whites of their eyes stark in the low light of the stone and wood den.

Get off.

GET OFF.

He snapped the ropes with his teeth. But he was foiled by his own body, his back making a terrible snapping noise as it slid into place, his legs losing function from the jolt of shock that poured through him.

The supposed-to-be-kin was glowing a faint gold. The supposed-to-be-kin was important. To kill or to protect? The scent said protect but his anger said kill. And he wasn't supposed to kill blue? Or was he supposed to protect red?

The world spun as the one-front-limbed prey heaved him up with a mighty effort and threw him into a smaller den. He rolled onto his feet, stalking towards the hole. Suddenly, wood slammed into his face as he leapt at the hole, intending to rip the prey apart. Yelping once, he backed up, the stone chilling his paws as they silently padded across it, throwing his full weight against the wooden slab. It rattled. The prey on the other side shouted and made more noise.

Kill.

Supposed-to-be-kin had overpowered him.

Protect.

He didn't know. He didn't wish to submit to the supposed-to-be-kin. They were equal. He hadn't protected supposed-to-be-kin. He'd lost the limb.

Protect.

He howled pitifully, strength fading, the slams into the door weakening until he collapsed onto one side and panted, scratching at the door.

Kin. Kin. Equal kin. Equal kin he would protect. Obey to some extent. But he wasn't a pet, wasn't to be caged, and as soon as the foolish blue prey opened their wooden slab, he would rip out their throats.


	5. Chapter 5

His gut awoke him, groaning as if it were trying to eat itself. But it was the cell chamber that brought him to consciousness. Altaïr looked around, then felt rather numb as he peeled himself off the floor, wincing as his skin tried to stick to it.

No clothes.

Altaïr staggered to one of the cells to steal a blanket, wrapping it around himself. He didn't understand - who had managed to drag him to the cell chamber and why hadn't they out him in a cell? Unless the chamber itself was all they could manage.

The door looked thoroughly battered, he thought, reaching to touch it but distracting himself by examining his blood-encrusted nails. All assassins were required to keep their nails short and clean, or at least blunted, but as he examined them closer his own nails had formed into dagger-points. They were stronger too - as he pressed around the cuticles he felt the skin was thicker, holding a fingernail closer to a talon than a human nail.

A weakness befell him. That hungry stomach made Altaïr lightheaded and he barely managed to sit down under his own power before stars burst at the edges of his vision, the world fading to grey as he slipped into his second sight. It would give him a headache before too long but the headache from his second sight was far preferable to the headache that was forming from the mystery of his situation. Ignoring his nails for the moment, he gently massaged his legs in the hopes of working some sensation into them.

Bit by bit his ability to walk returned, and Altaïr made it to the door to tap on it.

"Hello?" he croaked and he was surprised to hear how deep and hoarse his voice was.

He tapped again when there was no answer. Feeling the door, he popped the latch on the peephole. Stony faced guards peered back. One of them whispered to the other and Altaïr could hear a third trotting off to deliver a message.

"What happened?" he asked.

They stopped whispering. His stomach growled loudly, and Altaïr put his hand to his abdomen.

"I outrank you, tell me what happened!" he demanded.

The impressive order had no effect for his dizziness overtook him again and he immediately sat down. There was no other way to describe the hunger that coiled in his stomach but as if he hadn't eaten for weeks.

"If you won't answer me that then may I at least have something to eat?"

Stale bread and water looked very appealing. There was nothing that a lashing of hunger couldn't sauce. The guards didn't reply to that request either.

Someone was coming down the stairs. Kin. He could feel it, the link between them thickening as the other drew closer and Altaïr found a small reservoir of energy to stand at the peephole to wait for them. A coat of black swished around their feet and Altaïr knew it was Malik.

"Mal-" he began and then gasped as the link overwhelmed him with the Daí's fury.

"How could you have not said something?" demanded Malik. "How could you have not said that you were sick?"

Confused and weak, Altaïr sat, touching the deep scratches in the door. He had known something was wrong but he had only been feverish, hadn't he? The night before seemed distant and locked up in a puzzle box.

He let a nail drag down a rent in the timber. It matched almost perfectly.

"I did not know that a fever could cause such trouble," he admitted.

"A fever? Clearly you have no memory of the last few hours."

Altaïr pushed on the link to deflect the anger. It was making him nervous and he didn't know how to do it but he wanted that anger Igone./I But somehow he managed it and he sensed, rather than saw, Malik take the recoil.

"If you are persistent in going around in circles, Malik, then I will not listen," he threatened. "I am hungry. I want out. I want to know."

He raised his fist and slammed it against the door, the boards creaking from abuse.

"Get in one of the cells. Let it lock."

"I am not going to hurt you! Why are you treating me like a prisoner?" Altaïr hoarsely shouted.

"Because last night you turned into a massive wolf and attempted to attack the bureau!"

And like that, the box unlocked. Altaïr did as he was told and put himself into a cell. The smells and sounds were there. Jumbled up and crooked and strangely foreign like he was seeing it through another's eyes, but they were there nonetheless and he remembered.

And then he realised something about the warehouse.

They were all human. All of Talal's dogs were human. And they had been trapped in that form by some wicked magic. Talal had smiled because Ihe had known./I

Altaïr slipped into a haze of bloodlust. The humans in blue were good. Not pack but good. Allies. And Talal had been gold but he was a bad gold, a gold that he'd foolishly extinguished before it was ready.

Malik was gold but Malik was pack. His human protector and protected. The human leader to his pack.

He snapped from his trance. Malik had drawn up a chair to observe and held the document box in his lap. A plate of food had been delivered at some point. Starvation overrode his revelations until he had scraped up every last morsel, easing the gnawing feeling. He was weak and he knew it. The transformation into a wolf had sapped at his body, leaving it struggling to repair itself. The wolves he'd confronted were bigger and stronger.

Taking a deep breath, Altaïr scented the room and took in the relaxing perfume of Malik.

"You can't tell Masyaf," he said.

"And doom you to execution or worse?" Malik scoffed. "The winter convoy is due to arrive in a month's time. We have until then to sort out this mess."

There was another wolf. Two maybe. They hadn't changed back and they were loose in Jerusalem. Altaïr clenched his fists and his nails pricked his skin, drawing blood. It didn't register until it soaked into the blanket.

"You are bleeding."

Altaïr unclenched and held his hands in a ginger position. The pricks flowed freely but then slowed, the skin finally sealing up and healing as if nothing was there in the first place. Heedless of the danger, Malik leaned closer to look. He wrinkled his nose at the amount of blood when Altaïr stuck his arm through the bars.

"The document box contains something to all of this, I know it," said Altaïr.

Malik was careful to avoid Altaïr's sharp nails. He had seemed scrawnier before, if only a little. How much energy did it take for him to transform? His cheekbones were pronounced, the hollows a little deeper and his arm was similar. His shoulders seemed to be hunching in but Altaïr had become progressively calmer the longer Malik spent in his presence.

He turned to the guards and ordered a large serving of stew to be brought in. The document box was still secure on his lap. He'd had a few ideas about how to open it but he didn't want to risk their only source of information on this curse of Altaïr's.

When Malik turned back Altaïr had slipped into his second sight. The gift was alien to Malik and almost unnerved him as much as the giant wolf situation. Altaïr's pupils would shrink to a tiny dot, giving an unusual flashing of gold in his irises as an inner light flooded them. Quite forgetting he was nude without it, Altaïr's blanket slipped to his hips and Malik was horrified to see that he was right; Altaïr's body was in a state of waste, his ribs clearly visible and core muscles barely there. The other assassin either ignored the gaze or was completely unaware of it, his tongue curling over a set of the whitest and most vicious human teeth Malik had ever seen. It was a disturbing image of wild intensity and malnourishment.

The second sight faded, eyes staring in a less unsettling manner as Altaïr gestured for the box to be given to him. Malik handed it over for quick work to be made of it, Altaïr's fingers scratching the lacquer once or twice but deftly navigating hidden switches and combinations until the lid popped open and he peered inside.

He snarled, voice dropping into a non-human state, and drew out a parcel wrapped in brown paper and a list of names.

"An ownership list," he said, voice vibrating with a growl. "Talal knew I was coming, Malik. He wanted this to happen."

He thrust both items at Malik and turned away.

"You were to be sent to one of his clients," murmured Malik.

The Daí studied the list more intensely.

"These are the people who have purchased a human-wolf."

"Kin," blurted Altaïr and then he flushed red in shock.

"Kin, then," said Malik and made no question of it.

They were kin. Not pack but kin and Altaïr had an obligation to rescue them. Slavery had never sat well with him and he'd gone into the warehouse with a passion that was dangerous for an Assassin to have. Yet he'd failed to free the people there and had failed the people already gone. Talal had forced them into a form they did not want and then sold them to merchants and politicians who were interested only in being fashionable.

Exotic pets.

A rustling of paper made Altaïr sit up. Unwrapped in Malik's lap was a collar, and Altaïr recognised it as the same as the ones on the wolves he'd faced. This one, however, was far more elaborate, with a mosaic of flat-cut gems set into the surface. Where there wasn't a gem, there was a thick layer of engraved gold depicting trees and fruit and flowers, which sat over a base of silver.

Bile rose in his throat as he made out a script in the gold. He swallowed it down but couldn't speak and tilted his head at Malik. There, under an eagle with amber eyes and ruby-tipped claws, was Altaïr's name.

"Someone has betrayed the Assassins," he said.


	6. Chapter 6

Malik thought he'd already seen the most upsetting things that Altaïr's body could throw at him, but seeing it reconstruct itself Ias Altaïr ate/I was enough to put him off even speaking to Altaïr until he was done. The way that the muscle and fat slid across his bones and bulged and twisted was like a thousand snakes curling under Altaïr's skin and made Malik reconsider breakfast. He doubted Altaïr was thinking too much about the sensation and Malik didn't blame him - eat the food, keep it down, and his body would do the rest. He slowed down after he had demolished three more bowls of soup and two loaves of bread, plus one generous chunk of roasted meat roughly the size of both of Altaïr's fists combined.

He had grown, they discovered, in multiple ways. Taller, as his trousers attested with the hem rising a good deal above his ankle and a little broader in the shoulders. He was still lean - lean like one of the Crusader's racing hounds, a comparison that seemed apt but Malik kept to himself - but the fat that remained on Altaïr's body was for function, stretching thin over his abdomen and thighs. There was a darker dusting of hair on Altaïr's arms and legs, plus a good deal of scruff on his upper lip and jaw that he scratched at, wanting to shave. The hair on his head was the most impressive and curled wildly in blackish-brown locks that came to just below his shoulder.

They chose to focus on this rather than his increased virility, even though they couldn't help but glance down every now and then until Altaïr threw on a tunic out of frustration in the hopes the hem would come down to his thighs. The tunic stretched in awful ways, not fitting his shoulders or chest in some places, and was almost as if it weren't there to begin with in others. It did what Altaïr wanted it to do: cover the bulge that was pulling the front of his trousers.

His speed, flexibility and strength had also greatly increased, supplemented by the fact that Altaïr was (even if he didn't officially hold the title at this very moment) a Master Assassin. However there was the matter of compensation and adjustment - he trod in a heavier manner, smacked his head against doors, and overbalanced. In any other situation Malik would have found it quite amusing but he too burnt with the desire to discover the traitor, and treated Altaïr's determination to retrain himself fuelled by the same motivations.

They had no time to spare - already Malik had caught a journeyman attempting to communicate with Masyaf, something they could not afford with an unknown traitor lurking about - and so the process was forcedly awkward and short. It had taken a good deal of convincing to ensure the rest of the bureau didn't repeat the actions of their brother. The traitor might be amongst them, Malik had mused, but it was unlikely considering the majority of them held relatively low ranks. Most of them knew how to pick a lock and they all knew what mission documents looked like yet Malik remained an advocate of their innocence. They simply did not have the motivations or means to double-cross in such drastic manner.

Even if the traitor remained within the Jerusalem bureau they wouldn't be able to communicate as easily. Until the other kin were herded to safety the novices were denied outside access, and journeymen were restricted to certain areas with an earlier curfew. No, Malik had explained softly as he filed Altaïr's fingernails down to curved tips so he would stop scratching himself, it wasn't likely that the traitor was the journeyman that had been caught. This needed more power behind it. Besides the journeyman was doing what any other Assassin would do in his place. Even if he had disobeyed orders.

Altaïr didn't say anything to that - after all, mistakes were made, and sometimes orders were unreasonable. He didn't hold it against the young man sleeping in the second holding cell. (What had surprised all of them, particularly Altaïr himself, was the comfort he found in his cell, making a type of den meets nest while he waited for a consensus of the bureau to be let out. He'd decided to move the rest of his things in.)

By midday, however, they had made their decision and Altaïr found himself building a second nest near Malik's counter, this one made of maps and lists. It was too crowded with two people working on the same map and Malik was loathe to waste good copies, so he gave Altaïr a map he could mark, and a larger, more elaborate copy to refer to when the smaller one had no detail. Carefully, Altaïr marked down the first warehouse and the subsequent chase, the fall, Talal's death, and the death of the civilian. Then Malik stepped in with a detail of the rich district, each known purchase of the kin from the first warehouse located in red ink.

"Have you any news of the other warehouse?" asked Altaïr.

Malik sighed, "It's been stripped clean."

"Are you sure?"

"It burnt down last night."

Inwardly Altaïr cursed himself for not having checked it properly when they had the chance. The kin that the informant had reported had already been sold when he went past the first time, and so he'd foolishly ignored it for possible clues.

"We should investigate it regardless," said Altaïr and he turned back to his lists and maps.

A soft clink of a dish being carried up from the made Malik look towards the trapdoor, where Iyad emerged laden with a heavy tray of food. Unlike his younger rank-mates (and some of those who were ranked above him) Iyad had no fear about approaching them, although he did bow his head deferentially as he placed the tray within reach of the two assassins. When the winter convoy arrived it would take Iyad back to Masyaf where he'd take various tests to determine whether he should ascend to journeyman. He was almost old enough to travel alone and Malik found him to be a mature boy and excellent at street work.

(Malik remembered he had letters of recommendation to compose and he grimaced. More things to keep Masyaf unaware.)

Iyad didn't race off as soon as he had delivered the food. Instead he fastidiously arranged the platters and food to be the most visually appealing and pleasant tasting combinations. He bowed his head before he left, closing the trapdoor behind him. It slipped into a groove and appeared to be a mosaic of tiles, blending perfectly with the floor.

"When the news isn't as interesting and the guards have abandoned protecting it from looters," said Malik, picking out some bread from the tray and dipping it into a sauce.

Breakfast may have been reconsidered but lunch was certainly not to be skipped. He crammed as much dip and cheese onto it as he could and popped the end into his mouth. A small noise may have escaped him - there were a group of talented cooks below them and they had memorised his tastes - and Malik felt less fatigued even by that small morsel. It had been a horrendous night.

Altaïr's eyes followed the strip of bread with a spark of eagerness. With the man so close and the movement of wind from the courtyard archway that crept along the hairs on Altaïr's arms, he was unable to block out the alluring spice that made him slide closer to his companion. A fraction closer and he could press his lips against Malik's cheek.

Then Malik went for another piece of bread, sharply eyeing Altaïr. In a slight panic, Altaïr popped piece of cheese into his mouth, the full implications of what he'd about to do ramming him to twist uncomfortably in his chest. It wasn't allowed. It was the link.

"We should clear the street first. I had two wolves after me in the first warehouse and the second one wasn't there when I returned," coughed Altaïr.

He swallowed down some water and tried to ignore the sweep of Malik's lashes against his cheeks, the strong nose, the ochre-and-brown eyes.

"Potentially two of...the kin," mused Malik.

"I should find them. See if they want to become pack."

"What's the difference?" asked Malik.

As if he hadn't realised he was making a distinction to begin with Altaïr frowned. Idly he picked at the rough map, tracing the ink. Malik wasn't kin (supposed-to-be-kin, his mind unhelpfully tried to interject), but he was pack, but Altaïr was kin to the other wolves, and yet not pack.

"Kin," he began, then frowned again. "Kin are the same as me. The sometimes-wolves. A pack is a group of kin together that trust each other. A common group of alliances and friendship."

At least that was what his instinct was telling him.

"So there's some order after all," sighed Malik.

A thrum of relief played across them until it was unclear exactly who was giving it to the other. The relaxation in Malik's body suited him well. Leisurely, and with no indication of comprehending the action, Malik swiped some more food to eat. The thrum turned to a taste of eroticism, a velvet purr that rubbed up their spines and lightly settled around their shoulders like a cat.

"I will be back before curfew," said Altaïr.

Abruptly he made his way to his weapons, strapping them on in a hurry. The glint of the collar on the workbench made him flinch. They still hadn't determined the purpose of such a gaudy and dramatic thing. The captured kin had been wearing them and it made Altaïr nauseous to think of someone measuring out necks and hammering away at layers of silv to create such beautiful but horrific pieces.

"Investigate that thing," he almost spat with unfounded and unhidden venom.

Clearly someone hadn't cared if the world knew they had a volatile and skilled Assassin on the other end of the chain. They had wanted him specifically and they wanted to send a message. That the best Masyaf ha to offer wasn't good enough.

The warmth of the sun bit into his skin as Altaïr took off, hoping it would cleanse him of the thoughts of defeat and the thin twist of desire that sat in the link as it stretched and faded to an almost imperceptible bond.

The man in white was back again. He looked ragged and tired and the wolves that had been captured together and that were trapped between two worlds knew that he had experienced the night howling. He smelt different, his scent more like fur and the wind captured in it.

They hadn't meant to kill. They thought he wouldn't have survived but the man in white was stubborn and powerful. He had been a fighter coming in and a fighter going out and they had been told to hunt him.

The man with the collars had held control of them once. Asserted his dominance with the band of shiny and they had obeyed him because the band of shiny whispered to them and told them to.

They hadn't heard any whispers since they had bitten the man in white. Maybe they had failed their master. Still the bands of shiny offered no advice in this matter.

Wuffing quietly, the wolf that bit led the wolf that fell into a dark corner, scrabbling into their makeshift den until the man in white passed. Their dark furs blended well, and they closed their eyes to slits of blue to peer at the boots and shoes and bare feet that drummed the earth. And they waited.

The man in white would find them.

The wolf that bit remembered a word but couldn't make neither head nor tail of the word. Assassin. Sounded like a snake, like the hissing before a strike. The man in white had the hissing blade, the one that scraped out of a slot on his fore-paw. The whispers had warned them and they had avoided the shiny stabbing them directly, scratching their shiny band.

Maybe that's why it had been silent - the whisperings were offended.

The wolves were still fumbling with that theory when the man in white walked past and they almost jumped to follow him. There was something in his scent that riled the wolves, and made the wolf that bit want to bite once more, see how well the man in white would recover this time, while the wolf that fell didn't want anywhere near him, having been defeated once. It was cloying and thick, and heady, rolling off the man in white.

Yes, he had felt the full night howling, the wolves were sure of it. But he had come out of his first howling with more than most - he had found a human that was his equal. Not master. Not shiny bander.

A human alpha.


	7. Chapter 7

He could smell them. He could smell a lot of things, like the piss from guards, a rotten vegetable, but the two wolves were very much something else.

The smells were still overwhelming but now Altaïr could separate guard piss from dog piss from wolf piss and he wasn't sure how he could do it, only that he could.

Which made the thought of explaining it to Malik all the more unappealing. Oh yes, by the way, I can tell that sometimes-wolves have a very sour reek to their markings and you've not been drinking enough water, Malik.

That would go down a treat.

Scanning the alley the scent had led him to, Altaïr knew that this was the wolves abode. People seemed hesitant to step down here, even though it was the most direct shortcut between the temple and the road to the poorer districts. There were signs of death - a speckle of blood, the shrivelled head of a mouse.

A large crate stood under some scaffolding, presumably originally containing building materials but big enough to squeeze two kin into. Acting casually, Altaïr passed the crate, listening for anything he could hear over the ruckus of the city.

Something scuffed the ground.

Whirling around, Altaïr drew his long dagger as smoothly as he could, hoping that the kin couldn't hear the rasp of metal. They were here. They knew he was here.

Were they afraid? Perhaps.

He eyed the crate as he climbed to higher ground, scaling the side of the alley, then leapt to the next roof, where he slithered through the scaffolding. There was a near miss with his head, a thump against a supporting plank would've spoilt everything, until he was a short drop above the crate.

Scare them out. See what happens.

A nose poked from under a rag, twitching and shiny and black. Then a head emerged, looking from side to side. There was none of the rabidness of before - in fact the kin looked to be in an aware state of mind, relatively calm. It's ears were upright and rotating, listening.

The silver collar, Altaïr observed, was still intact, although it bore a deep stabbing scratch near the base where the spine would be.

Altaïr launched himself to land as heavily as he could on the top of the crate. The kin was startled the rest of the way out and had no time to react as Altaïr leapt upon it's back and wrestled it to the ground. The other kin, the one still in the crate, made a half-hearted attempt to attack Altaïr, but was easily fended off with an elbow to the chest.

The kin underneath him struggled and snarled, snapping their jaws.

Altaïr snarled back (a foreboding and powerful snarl, one that rumbled with thunder from the mountains and rolled in black and purple clouds), fingers digging into fur. The kin stilled. He wrestled the wolf down for good measure, keeping one hand around their muzzle.

"Remember me?" Altaïr asked softly, the purple-black clouds swirling at the edge.

The other kin whined, their tail thumping against the crate. It stared at the dagger in Altaïr's hands.

"If you think I am that foolish, I would advise you to reconsider," said Altaïr.

He kept one eye on the free kin and the other on the kin pinned underneath him. Slowly, their breathing synchronised, the wolf not attempting any more aggressive moves.

"If you remember me, then you know what has happened."

He let go of the muzzle to knock his hood back, revealing his face properly, his sharp teeth bright against the dirt caked onto his skin. The other kin did a strange little prance and edged closer to Altaïr, nose held high as it sniffed the air. Altaïr shoved the wolf away, not wanting it to come too close, and raised an eyebrow when the wolf happily rolled over in a submissive state and stared at him.

Backing up slowly, the trapped kin became free and hurriedly stuffed their head into Altaïr's free hand as if trying to appease him. This wasn't exactly what Altaïr had expected.

In fact, what the hell had just happened? These two had been vicious and wild the last time he had encountered them, now they acted like placid little puppies. The kin on their back rolled back up and also demanded Altaïr's attention, wedging themselves against his legs.

"Can you understand what I'm saying?"

They looked to one another, then wuffed - an awkward sound for a wolf.

"Stay and I cannot help you. Come with me, behave, be part of my pack, and I can," he told them firmly. "Only know that if you do not intend to join me then you will be encroaching upon my territory. That is a death sentence."

He untangled himself and started to move towards the mouth of the alley, sheathing his dagger and raising his hood. He almost thought they were preparing to attack from behind. They wouldn't get the better of him ever again. They had bitten him, changed him, but they were not his masters.

A furry head nudged at Altaïr's hand - the kin that had fallen. The kin that had bitten him was a few steps behind, not quite as accepting of the pack formation but knowing they had no choice if they wanted to live.

"There is no turning away from this," warned Altaïr as he drew out two lengths of rope. "Until we reach the safehouse, you will need to pass as trained dogs."

They appeared to as they didn't make a fuss when Altaïr created two temporary leashes, enough to fool regular guards and civilians, and pretended that he was a merchant's servant taking his master's pets for a walk.

***  
"When you said 'see if they want to become pack', I didn't actually expect you to do that," said Malik.

Altaïr shrugged and looked at the two wolves sitting at his feet. One of them was sprawled out, napping lightly, ears listening to the conversation; the other was sitting as formally as a wolf could, on high alert and noticeably between Altaïr and Malik. They looked normal enough, apart from being about twice the size of a regular wolf.

"This is Malik. He's not to be touched," ordered Altaïr.

The safehouse wasn't that far from the bureau but the pack didn't know that. The alert kin whined.

"No," repeated Altaïr firmly, a touch of steel in his tone.

"Are you sure you have control?" Malik asked.

"Yes," replied Altaïr and he tapped the alert kin on the shoulder. "More once we free them from their wolf-state."

He didn't mean yes, realised Malik, but he couldn't say so, couldn't undermine his power. Altaïr had moved the pack to a safehouse for more than one reason.

"That may take a while," said Malik.

He looked around the safehouse - it consisted of one room, and not very large. At most it could accommodate maybe eight people without being overly cramped and twelve if you were being ambitious. However the walls were thick stone and allowed a bit of extra noise, which was a blessing. A fireplace for cooking stood at one end, and bed rolls were at the other. They could fit about eight kin and Altaïr if it came down to it.

Altaïr fingered a collar, sliding his fingers between fur and metal, running the same calculations in his head.

"Hopefully not too long."

He hissed and snapped his fingers back, staring at the collar in shock. The fingers that had prolonged contact were sharply clawed again. A few seconds later, they changed again into his human digits.

"I knew those collars had something to do with it," Altaïr hissed.

His pack glanced at him as if that were obvious.

"I am not exactly familiar with the rules," he told them and they had the dignity to lower their heads.

Malik frowned, and knelt to look at the collar, thumbing the faint grooves in the surface. He was sure to keep his fingers away from the kin's mouth, approaching the band from behind. The grooves looked familiar, and Malik's temper flared even as he kept a stoic facade. Altaïr, however, tilted his head in question and there was no denying this link or bond or whatever it was, because Malik Ifelt/I rather than saw the curiosity.

The Apple of Eden had been decorated in such a way. It was not an exact copy yet the collar held the same spark underneath the metal. It seemed to glow under Malik's touch. But there were no visible locks and Malik had the uncomfortable realisation that there was a special movement along the etchings that would release the collar. A movement that he did not possess.

"Snapping it with a chisel would be too easy," murmured Altaïr. "Potentially dangerous - there could be a trap or the chisel could slip."

He left Malik to work, pulling some of the rugs down for the kin to sleep on. While walking back to the safehouse, drawing a disgustingly high amount of attention, Altaïr purchased some dried meat (he didn't need raw meat dripping through the paper and leaving a trail). This was what he unwrapped now, giving his kin a chunk each and saving the rest to be placed on the storage shelf. They tore into the food, gnawing happily while Malik continued his observations.

If he experimented on the collar at the bureau, would it be the same? It was a different design. Should he leave Altaïr here or leave the pack? They could only escape by one exit, the safehouse itself built between two buildings with no doors, and another cleverly hidden trapdoor.

He didn't trust the pack, harmless as they now appeared. There was every chance this was an elaborate trap. Altaïr seemed to trust them.

Malik tried not to think of Altaïr's previous errors in judgement.

This was getting more complicated by the minute.

"I still can't believe you brought them here," Malik decided to say, circling back to his first reaction.

"I do not kill as easily as you may believe," said Altaïr.

They made eye contact, brown against amber, and slowly Malik nodded.u

"You are a changeable man."

"We cannot exist in a frozen state," replied Altaïr.

He didn't speak after that, acutely aware that he was straying too closely to fresh wounds, too much for Malik to handle. The grief lapped at them both, like silk that would wrap around their throats to make them choke on words and sounds, the pain bleeding into those notes without a care for the havoc it wreaks. They were not times to speak in, and Altaïr kept himself busy that night as Malik fiddled with the magnificent yet chilling instrument of control.


	8. Chapter 8

A scattering of soft brown and black locks had fluttered to one corner of the courtyard when Malik came out to start the day. The journeymen and the novices sat clustered together, clipping each other's hair to acceptable lengths while Altaïr brooded in the other corner. He'd found a ribbon or scrap of silk from somewhere and had put his hair into a high bun, a few curls escaping the messy attempt to frame his face. He didn't look at all pleased by it, not with the sour look on his face like he'd smelt something particularly foul.

Malik decided to ignore him until after the bureau had eaten.

However it was one thing to decide to ignore Altaïr and quite another for it to actually work. As Malik unhooked the grate for the day he felt Altaïr sidle up to watch. Food first, he reminded himself. Food, then cranky pups.

It came out over the morning gruel that Altaïr had attempted to cut his hair only for it to rapidly grow to the shoulder-length it had been previously. Hence the sullenness as it was a combat danger and very sticky around Altaïr's neck. Small details like that only proved to infuriate him and kept him silent throughout the meal.

He sat in a roughspun shirt and trousers, appearing to be nothing but a handsome youth, perhaps one from a farming family. It perturbed Malik to see Altaïr looking so young - there was something about the robes of their order that made a man wiser and older in appearance and Altaïr was no exception. He still had his weapons and belts strapped on but they did not sharpen the edge of maturity like white cloth and scarlet banners.

Had it really been a mere few years since they had entered adulthood?

Very patiently Altaïr waited until everyone had eaten their first serving of breakfast before taking a second. He wasn't eating as much as the day before (for which Malik was thankful because he didn't think he could supply enough food) but he still ate with an intensity that gave the impression someone would lose their hands if they tried to take his meal from him.

The food worked wonders, and by the end of the meal the sometimes-wolf was moderately content.

At least, that's what Malik would have thought had it not been for a completely different emotion that surged through him from the link. Altaïr had looked up and then it had hit, Malik almost squeaking in surprise. He shoved the link back, which was a bad idea for Altaïr shivered in the recoil, his eyes going glassy and extended a foot under the table to stroke at Malik's own. The restraint that kept the raw aggression, pounding adrenaline, and general frustration of the past few days in check had snapped. Altaïr had a dangerously sensual aura melting into his body, and any signs of the young boy he had once been transformed into an adult intensity that Malik could almost touch.

It was almost too much to hope that the bureau hadn't noticed but by some miracle they hadn't. Or they assumed that there was a silent argument between the Daí and the master assassin. One thing had become very clear to them, regardless: Altaïr might be the alpha wolf of the pack (yes, they knew about the other wolves, that was a bit hard to hide when supplies had to be diverted to the safehouse), but Malik wasn't going to be pushed into anything he didn't want. He was the human alpha - the one without the distractions of being transformed - and he held equal power with Altaïr.

Either way, noticed or ignored, Malik was grateful.

He smacked Altaïr's foot away. The languid state changed again, harder, but accepting.

"Wait," said Malik.

They both knew what would happen the moment Malik allowed it. Altaïr could probably smell the lust that seemed to choke at Malik's abdomen. The question was: would Malik allow it?

He could feel Altaïr's frustration (at the arousal, the loss of his powerful will, at Malik, but mostly at the changes within himself) and that certainly played a part. But he also questioned Altaïr's control; this sudden upset was not conducive to gentleness and Malik did not want that intensity. Not yet. Perhaps not even from Altaïr.

In this angry, charged man opposite him, Malik could too easily see the foolish boy from Solomon's Temple. An arrogance had tainted the link - and Malik narrowed his eyes - and Altaïr backed up.

"No. Help clear away the table and then you may do as you please," said Malik.

Unhappy but obedient, Altaïr tugged at his shirt, and tried to pull back that control. The menial chores helped a little, but Malik's proximity made him want to scream. He was still aroused, still painfully hungry for a bodily satisfaction, and he wondered if he would have privacy in his cell. The punished journeyman was still being kept separate. The man would have to cope.

He growled. Nobody questioned where he was going once his chores were done.

But in the end, Altaïr simply curled up and waited, disgusted with himself for making Malik stare him down with such coldness.

***  
Peering through reports and missives, Al Mualim was concerned to find reports of wild dogs roaming the streets of Jerusalem. That was supposed to have been taken care of, yet there were more reports that the dogs in question had become a popular item amongst the rich. With the winter convoy a week out from leaving Al Mualim was concerned.

He knew what they were. Had known for a while and had fought viciously with Talal over the introduction of the werewolves in his inventory. When he failed to put a stop to the acquisition (and "breeding"), he'd had a collar crafted in the hopes that Talal would see it as a peace gift. Instead the man had taken the design and duplicated it, delighting in the properties it held: control and forcing the werewolf into wolf form.

In return for being so troublesome, Al Mualim asked for his own werewolf.

Talal said yes, take whichever one you please. Send one of your own men. Make him faster, stronger, more vicious; a true weapon. Use the collars and breed yourself a true army.

And so Altaïr was sent, innocent of the events that had transpired, to kill Talal.

It was only when it was too late to stop the mission that Talal added a postscript to the deal: Altaïr had already fetched a promising price and would make a fine curiosity for Robert de Sable. Thank you for sending your best stock.

So when Altaïr completed his mission, injured but alive, Al Mualim had waited for a report of alarm in a month's time. Malik, the fool, should have sent Altaïr back right away, but there was some unspoken care in Malik's letter. Fretful. Anxious. The fever could have taken Altaïr whole.

No such report came.

Perhaps the whole bureau had been lost. But the reports came in, just thinner.

Altaïr had transformed, Al Mualim was certain. Jerusalem was hiding that and it showed. Malik prided himself on subtlety but Altaïr always seemed to foil him one way or another.

At least de Sable lost a great sum of money, thought Al Mualim venomously, taking up a quill to pen an order of return. Now he just had to claim his prize.

He wondered what sort of collar he should choose. Gold seemed a little gaudy. Something with a tightness so Altaïr would always be reminded exactly who was in control.


End file.
